


all the zeros lined up (when you've come undone)

by diaghileafs



Category: The Hour
Genre: Angst, Chair Sex, Dom/sub, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Post-Canon, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diaghileafs/pseuds/diaghileafs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bel may be her producer, but away from the office Lix Storm knows exactly who's in charge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the zeros lined up (when you've come undone)

**Author's Note:**

> don't look at me, look at anna-chancellor.

Love hurts, and that is the cold hard truth of it. It strips away at your barriers, it’s stronger than you, Lix has found, something is brunt into the fleshy rawness of your heart. Her heart is bruised by names and places, and the ashes have settled in her lungs. She’s tired now, Lix is, of spending years of lacing her soul with whiskey and chaining her cigarettes to try and smother the fire but it never quite goes away. It doesn’t matter if you fall in love at sixteen or forty-one, you’re still easy prey – Love, like Death, isn’t choosy. You’re always caught off guard, you can never be too careful, Lix has learnt, the person you fall in love with is the last person you expect. When it comes down to Love, she is never the same because you can’t ever grow too wise of his game (it’s a He, she decides, it’s got to be). For him she is Lexie, Lou - schoolgirl names all at once - Lexa in Spain and Lix in London, just a host for him.

He leaves sometimes, even though this is very rare, marks on your exterior: she has a rook in her shoulder from her first love; her name was Irene and Lix remembers her in a thousand different ways but always in sunshine – that was the middle of summer, that day when Lix had fallen over the balustrade as she tried to sneak into the infirmary to see her love, crimson curls pooled out on the pillow which had become as pale as her hollow cheeks. That was the last Lix ever saw of her. Under her left breast, there’s a mark along her ribcage where a bullet scraped her in Madrid, and a few days later she met Randall. And, of course, on her stomach lies a dotted silver line which reads in bloodied ink _So-fee-ah_.

Loving Bel is different to Irene or Randall, and all the others insignificant in between (their faces have faded and Lix forgets their names). Perhaps because she’s younger than Lix, perhaps because this is new to her, or perhaps it’s just something Lix can’t explain. They’re cautious with each other but passionate in the blue darkness of an office, a hallway, a bedroom. They love each other but it’s said too much or not enough, sighed in desperation and scribbled on the inside of each other’s thighs.

There’s still a part of Bel which loves Freddie, poor boy sleeping in his grave, and a part of Lix that belongs across the Continent – to Randall.  But it was easy to fall for her, her soft curls and porcelain skin; Bel is one of those girls with an ace in her hand and Lix loses all her chips on the table, sat on the stairs of a backstreet bar one night, the lights just low enough for everything but Bel’s lips to be eclipsed in shadows. When a hand slid into her lap, entwining bourbon against the cotton of her trousers, she did not, would not wait because Time is a thing too slow for her; she is a hundred different people winding backwards a hundred different clocks, and none of their two hundred arms hang flaccid at the sides their fat, thin bodies. Bel is so cold to touch and yet her fingers still rouge into blisters against the long stretch of Lix’s jaw, skirting to her lips, and never fluttering, never giving anything away.    

The thing is, Bel knows exactly the right moves to make in a way that Lix didn’t when she was that age – when the best she got was a five-minute fumble against a dormitory wall, paper thin and death omnipresent outside. Bel can read Lix like a book she’s dog-eared the pages of. She can play it nonchalant in the taxi home and kiss Lix like she wants her when they’re sat on the older woman’s sofa-bed; all teeth and tongues until Bel is hovering over her like a Nordic goddess and Lix’s aperture has narrowed around the glint her breasts in the lamplight, the way it sends shocks down her spine to run her hands under the girl’s skirt, the curves against her suspender clips (they make Lix moan in frustration despite herself which makes Bel kiss her harder).

Lix could have her there - right there - with her head at an unfortunate angle on the arm of the sofa, and the cheap material rough beneath her. But she won’t, she wants something more since she is exposed in her cotton underwear and Bel trembling, above in lace panties and legs still teased with nylon. “We can’t,” Lix whispers, “not here,”

“We can,” Bel’s voice is small and shaking, head dipping to press kisses to Lix’s hot neck.

And Lix bites back a groan, firm while her resolution holds – _God_ , how she wishes they could, she’s already wet through and her hips have started to grind against hers, “darling…”

The blonde woman tilts her head to lock eyes with her, withering, lust swimming in the colour of the Baltic, “Lix, please,” she rasps, pleads and Lix sighs at how prettily she begs, “I need you _now_.”

But she resists with the little will dissolves in her throat, embracing Bel chastely and slipping out from underneath her. The lights go out, she holds out her hand (this is not like walking blindfolded into a pink hurricane for her – as it is for Bel). They tumble into the office and Bel wants to laugh because only Lix Storm would forgo a proper bedroom for an office but Lix shushes her with a lingering kiss and an alien object placed in her palm. Lix steps back and studies her studying the length, the faux leather, running her hand along the shaft, then realising. “Take those goddamn things off,” Lix points at the stockings, settling back into herself, this power, “and get that on.”

Bel stares at her for a moment, mouth popping, so perfect Lix would cover it with her own if the thrill of seeing the girl squirm didn’t excite her quite so much. But she does comply after what feels like an eternity in the pattern of Lix’s throbbing. The straps are clicked into placed and Bel moves closer, a shallow breath cutting the air between them, and catches her hand around Lix’s knickers. Lix waltzes them over to the chair, sitting Bel down before gently curling in her lap, sighing.

Bel’s fingers are nimble from years of typewriter keys and applying nail polish, they press into her hips to start with as Lix fine tunes her rhythm, hard enough to leave morning bruises, before one curled inside her to find her wetness and the other to her buttocks to draw her closer, tongue licking across her nipple and biting down on the delicate skin there – the place that sends Lix wild.

Their breaths become a harmony of broken moans and Bel throws her head back, just as Lix stops moving, an eyebrow raised, challenging her, “don’t stop, don’t stop,” Bel gasps, not bearing to open her eyes to see the older woman sink down deeply, _say please_ , ripples hot on against her ear. “Please, Lix,  harder please,” is what she whimpers in response, Lix picking up her pace again, getting faster and faster as they both begin to crumble.

And suddenly Lix can focus on nothing but Bel’s cries shattering around her and her own endless waves of pleasure, easing off the object to coaxing herself through the aftershocks. When she looks up, Bel is stumbled in the chair, face awash with grief and tears, and Lix knows exactly what – who – she’s thinking about. So she kisses her forehead before they crawl into bed and sleep like children after Bel’s wails subside. Lix says nothing. Love hurts, and that is the cold hard truth of it.


End file.
